


Of Wolves and Mabari

by PaigeStaves



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addiction, Dragon Age Lore, Dragon Age Spoilers, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/M, Haven (Dragon Age), PTSD, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Recovery, Substance Abuse, Trauma, trauma mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:21:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26386336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaigeStaves/pseuds/PaigeStaves
Summary: Vignettes from the life of the Inquisitor Veren Lavellan and relationships through and beyond Dragon Age: Inquisition. Each chapter is a new vignette of her journey, and the journeys of those whose lives she touched. The first chapter is an overview of the timeline and context for the following vignettes.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Original Female Character(s), Dalish (Dragon Age: Inquisition)/Fen'Harel, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan





	1. When all is said...

When Cullen first met the Inquisitor, they clashed in heated debates. The Commander was certain that he had never prayed as hard for restraint. Coming directly from Kirkwall, and the nightmares both fresh and revisited hot on his heels, he had not had time to fully come to terms with the mage rebellion. When the world itself split open to pour those nightmares into his waking life once again, the salvation that the Maker ushered out of the Fade was another mage. And she in turn brought the entire mage rebellion to camp among his soldiers. There was not one night in that first year where he slept easy.

They fought bitterly. Or as bitter as it could be. Cullen never broke decorum, but he never let the Inquisitor make a decision without the sharpest critique. And he did his job impeccably, unwilling to give her any reason to doubt his commitment to the cause. Because that is why he stayed — to fix the world and bring a modicum of peace to the terrified masses, not because he believed in her.

There was one moment that did not dampen his critique nor his drive but rather shifted how he approached the issues. The Inquisitor came to the Conclave with a face already marred with deep scars beneath her eyes and bisecting her mouth. She was Dalish, and he had assumed that it was a result of their lifestyle or a hunting accident. He realized his ignorance when she confirmed that it was indeed part of their lifestyle— the part that included Templar torment. She had been physically marred by templars much in the same way that he had been psychically by the mages of the Circle. Cullen felt doused in shame when he allowed himself to realize that she would have never survived in Kirkwall, and he confronted his failures as a protector of the people once again. Very few elven mages made it out alive and outside the Qun. She was a survivor.

While she established a significant presence in the Hinterlands and saved his men in the Fallow Mire, he had failed to see her as anything other than a resemblance to those who would have caused such trauma and pain. She had spat the truth at his feet before leaving to another mission in the South. For weeks, he paced and raged and regretted. When she returned, he apologized in the war room. She would still grit her teeth at his incessant questions and criticism, but she knew that now they came from his sense of responsibility. As more and more elves joined the Inquisition, she would hear of him taking many soldiers to task for the use of slurs. A Dalish elf joined them from the Exalted Plains, and Leliana reminded Cullen of the valuable knowledge and experience that the Dalish provided. He briefly worried that the Inquisitor might show a preference to the Dalish volunteers. Although she did socialize more frequently with her own people, her treatment of the soldiers remained consistent. Again, he chided himself. At that point, it had been two years. He should have known better.

After the fall of Haven, he began to seek her out more often to talk about operations, specialized missions, and to inquire after her own health. Indeed she had grown far stronger than when she first fell from the Breach. But he was aware of the accumulating atrocities both experienced and witnessed. He had prayed sweet relief that her recovery from her first encounter with Corypheus was blessedly expedited by the expertise of Solas. It was not until he feared her dead that he realized how desperately the Inquisition needed her, and not just for the Mark. She united people, and her elven heritage created tidal currents the Inquisition could ride to influence. When she returned, he felt hope burst again into glorious flame.

In truth, he was glad that the Inquisition had attracted the attention of Solas. She spent many hours with him, especially after particularly unusual events, and Cullen credited the elf with staving off the worst symptoms of battle sickness. Not many, himself included, had such a buffer. It was then—seeing her persevere through the shared traumas, checking in with the soldiers, chin up with scars bared to the battlements—that he decided to seriously commit to cutting off his reliance on lyrium.

Entering the situation with the Inquisition, Veren knew she was not only fighting Chantry opposition but also the individual and historical prejudice of shems. The Commander was worthy in his post but it took a year of her stubbornly holding the line for him to relent to her leadership. She had refused to appeal to him beyond anything a shem would have to do. She knew that sometimes he would still stare at her scars when he thought she could not notice. She held her head high, because it shamed him — and she hoped that the story would spread, that the soldiers who resented her for creating an ally of mages, who knelt to her and told tales of honor and valor, would know from whose hands the scars were made. But she was grateful to the Commander, because he kept her trauma private. And without explanation to her, he began to berate his shem soldiers for their behavior to the elven recruits.

She spent more and more time with Solas. Her Keeper had wanted her to be the First, but she was weary of the Dalish fear — they were proud people, but she believed that they were afraid of their past as much as they wanted to preserve it. She had heard of an elf in Kirkwall, a blood mage, who had awakened an old elven artifact. There were rumors that the elf had either been exiled from her clan or had murdered them all. Veren’s belief landed on the side of exile. She had seen bold and daring minds abandoned in the woods. If her people were so proud of their heritage, why keep such secrets? She knew enough to know that being a Keeper meant censorship. And she was tired — so very tired — of exploring almost to the truth but not quite the full way there. Superstitions kept her clan safe, but they kept them rigid, unchanging, and limited. Solas showed her the vast expanses of history and empowerment that she craved. He showed her extraordinary things about her own magic and spirits.

On their journeys, he would be a constant stream of revelations. He and Varric would interweave entire tapestries of tales about kingdoms, the rise and fall of champions, of myths and legends, and the intimate wonders of their worlds. She and Cassandra would listen, contributing stories of their own but they were no tellers like those two.

When Haven fell, and she had somehow pushed herself through the blind snow of the Frostbacks, she had awoken once again to the firm but gentle healing touch of Solas. They often spoke in private about the plight of elves, and about their individual concerns of having an elf as the Herald. She was overwhelmed with gratitude to have such an ally by her side. When her ears had stuck to the metal in her helmet, and her fingers turned black with frostbite, and her heart all but whimpered in her chest, she felt relief and comfort simply knowing he was by her side. Although, she knew that the massive doses of elfroot greatly contributed.

She does not remember this, but the moment Solas began to soften to her in ways he had yet to feel among these people happened when they were travelling through the Frostbacks—after he told her that the artifact that caused the Breach was of elven origin. The conversation was grave, and her comment sincere, but the weight it held for either of them was different.

She had turned to leave their privacy, and said, “I am glad we do not have to do this alone.”

She gently gripped his shoulder as she said this and walked away.

Initially, Solas scoffed at this. They were not the same, nor were they kith or kin. But as he denied their commonality, she remained in the back of his mind—a sand of grain rolling and scratching, and each evening spent ignoring her added another pearlescent coat of interest.

She lacked the fear he felt was so condemnable of the Dalish. He would frequently frown after he would catch himself swept off in a passionate tangent, her eyes shrewdly taking in the information. She returned fire with astute questions and comments. She challenged him. They found each other wrong in things and learning.

Veren marvelled at Skyhold, commanding respect and renovations that restored its glory. Solas noted that she met places where they were, rather than within her own expectations. She chided him frequently for failing to do so. Solas thought the Dalish were arrogant and ignorant. But she pushed back on him with a sharp wit. He resented her at first. But it boiled over to a passionate curiosity. Indeed, he found himself goading her just to see the flint-eyed intelligence taper to a blade.

She was more reckless when heated by battle rage and had mastered the spirit blade of Knight-Enchanter to assist her when she raged too close to enemy combatants. Although she had regular sessions with her trainer, she sought out Solas to learn the context of ancient elven warriors. She had seen him fight, but he was still her knowledgeable tutor—the clever scholar ever at her side with knowledge, wisdom, and a new perspective. He watched her slay demons and rush to the aid of her party members with valor and vigor. He would cast his barrier and she would glow with his magic, summoning a brilliant blade from her palm to strike down the oppressors.

She marvelled at the shift in him. From thoughtful and rigid to a fluid flurry of power. She felt his magic as a soft intoxication, emboldening her onward into the fray. More than once, she leapt between him and a blade or engulfed him in protective flames.  
Once, she fell in battle. It was a simple rift. But she was cornered in a cavern. Cut off from escape by her arrogance and rock. The demon bore down on her, another emerging from the ground below. Both struck her with such speed, she could not reach for aid. Solas felt his fury unleash. Rifts and demons rarely pulled the righteous anger from him that he would direct at templars and bandits. But in that moment, fear spiked harshly into pain and anger.

His one…

In the moment, he could not finish the thought. Just a One. A someone. An important someone.

An unexpected tie to something that felt like home.

They had kissed in the Fade—foolishly, and he dismissed it outright. He regretted his dismissal as he held her limp body.

As Solas’ walls fell, they grew closer, stealing kisses in the moonlight and in secret. Many guessed at their bond, but it was the inner circle that only knew for certain. Although, the entirety of Thedas knew when her Vallaslin disappeared. It was not long before the whisper network reported that she had left and returned with the mysterious elf.

His absence… it was felt throughout the Inquisition, but severely through their leader.

Cullen was quiet when she grieved angrily. He kept his face impassive as furious tears burned her cheeks. He remained stoic when she pushed away the comfort of close friends, as she drank and smashed barrels with Rainier and The Iron Bull. When her storming passed, he stayed where she could find him—behind his desk on the ramparts.

She visited often. They drank and sang, they traded war stories and laughed. Eventually, she trusted. He saw pain that few would recognize. Many are betrayed by lovers. Few of those lovers were bonded through battle. He understood the breach of trust, the many layers through which it tore.

One evening, when they had made a significant dent in a decanter of whiskey over some paperwork and correspondence, she found herself on her knees. Her face was pressed into the Commander’s lion mantle, as he held her sobbing frame.

“He cut me away so swiftly, and then did not say goodbye.”

She wept into his shoulder until she could not breathe. He held her through the night.

She returned to his bed frequently, only to be held. They slept in each other’s arms.

Veren told Cullen how Solas would guard her dreams. How he would lay his head next to hers. How he would wrap his arms and magic around her to stave off the nightmares. She whispered this into the crook of Cullen’s elbow. He held her tighter.  
  
She heard his sleep talk. Deep in the night, when his fretful sleep would wake her, she would kiss his forehead with a touch of magic. She had learned to dispel from her elven friend, and used it then on the Commander. They slept easier next to each other.

At first, it was companionship, shared hurt. Then, it was vulnerable, and they wordlessly came to an understanding.

Cullen grew to love Veren deeply. He did not resent that her heart still belonged to the far-off elf. He knew that Veren cherished him, and he knew that what they had was not romance, but comfort.

Trembling, she had whispered, “Fen’harel.”

The name of the elf that stood by her side, healed her, defended them all, aided their efforts. The trickster, unlucky god of Dalish lore. Before them for years.

He watched her fracture all over again. But her pain was tempered to a focal point aimed at the heart of Fen’harel. She vowed to find him. Stop him. But Cullen knew she would not kill him. And if she did, it would be the end of both elves.  
  
To spite the Dread Wolf, Veren disbanded the Inquisition. If Fen’harel wanted information, she would make it as difficult to obtain as possible. She took to heart the advice of Leliana—that sometimes it is worth the sacrifice of clout to find access through the shadows.

For a while, she came to Cullen as a lover. For them both, it was an affirmation—of life, of beginnings, of rising yet again from ashes to find a new form of faith. When it came time for Veren to pursue Fen’harel, they went their separate ways with a strong love and a deep friendship. She dreamt of wolves that circled her out of reach, but some nights there was still a mabari at her side.

Cullen, weary after years of command, accepted the land from the Divine. He helped former Templars disconnect themselves from lyrium and from the chantry. He opened the door to his home one day to find a stubborn woman with a pack and a sleeping roll. She told him she was there to help. She said that she had broken from lyrium on her own and that now she wanted to help others. There was not much that he could say—or even wanted to say—that would dissuade her from dropping her things in the entrance.

Austana had a proud stance. She had a chin that challenged the audacity of those around her. She had scars, and Cullen told her about those of the Inquisitor. He spoke about the strength and resilience that they conveyed. Over that first year of her stay, they spoke of their pasts, and Cullen learned of her escape from corruption. Austana tried to find the Grey Wardens to give herself to them but succumbed to sickness and poverty long before she learned of their fate. While the world warred around her, she moved from fix to fix to stay alive. She ended up in the Deep Roads, on the bottom rung of a morally questionable mercenary group, hiding and hoarding shreds of precious blue lyrium to stay alive and with a sense of self.

The group abandoned her for dead. She had a seizure from withdrawl, and the mercenaries left her body in a ditch, not wanting the responsibility of her survival or death. She credits the Maker’s poor sense of humor for her survival and eventual recovery.  
She kept her straight hair in a short cut at her shoulders, which grew ever stronger with health as she worked alongside Cullen at the sanctuary. Austana became an essential part of both the institution and his life. Upon reflection, it was difficult for him to pin down the exact time she moved from the boarding house into his own cottage. And from there to his bed.

Each night, he kissed her shoulders and the top of her head. Austana knew about the former Inquisitor. Cullen kept no secrets from her—a vow that he repeated privately on their wedding day. When a raven appeared one day to notify them of Veren’s imminent arrival, Austana’s stomach fluttered in anticipation.

The elf was more than Austana could have imagined. With silver hair and dark lips, the arm that once held the legendary mark now gone, Veren Lavellan was a veteran vision to behold. She sat astride an Avvar war nug, something Cullen could not help but laugh at in disbelief. Austana was mortified at his familiarity with someone as mythic as _the_ Lavellan, but quickly realized her own foolish assumptions. They were companions. The layers of rumor and mystic never reached between them.

Veren and Austana became fast friends. She had come to check in with her old Commander, to see if his blade was still sharp and ready to aid. But instead, she found a family that she could not in any good conscience ask her friend to sacrifice. Veren adored how Cullen’s arm draped around Austana, how they spoke about the babe they expected. Instead of conscription, Veren pledged the help of her clan in the birth. Although she left her dear Commander to a quiet life, many rehabilitated members of the sanctuary followed her cause north to Tevinter.

Austana sent thanks once the Dalish had arrived with blessings and aide. What happened to the former Inquisitor and her god-love would remain to be seen. At the very least, she had at her back the prayers of one faithful family and a warm welcome home, if she made it through.


	2. The Demons that Follow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What pushes Fen'harel?

Solas felt the reality shift around him. Without looking, he froze the being in place. It was another demon of desire — a wretched perversion of the longing that gripped his heart. Demons are not difficult for the Dread Wolf to banish. What brought him agony was their infuriating tendency to take her face. To take her voice. To plead at him like she did before the eluvian. To cry out as she did when he took her arm, saved her from the Mark, and once again tore her being asunder.

Solas often berated himself to no productive end. No matter the words he turned against himself, he still found her dreams. He would not wander in or stumble upon them. He knew exactly where to find her, because the miserable longing in his heart would always lead him true. He took the form of a wolf, even though he knew she would recognize him — how could she not? But he was too afraid to show his face, to betray himself and his own pride. If he let her see his own pain that he knew he could not hide — not there in the Fade, the realm of emotion itself — he would never be able to leave.

There are times when he is tempted, when he desperately wishes against himself to throw away his knowledge of what stands before him and to sink into the open arms of the false vision of his love. But it is not her. It is not his heart.

After a while, once the demons realized that he could not be tempted, they moved on to torment. They would follow him in her guise and cry out as she did when the Mark would twist her from the inside. They would mimic her convolutions and plead with him — _please, why did you make the Veil, why did you doom us all, how could you be so selfish, how could you damn us to this kind of life, condemn me to this loneliness?_

Abjuration was well known to him. And he denied to himself that the demons had any effect. He knew their nature. He knew their cause. He said to himself that he was a student of the Fade and all of its mysteries, including this.

The pain that they gave him pushed him onward. He must restore.

The demons pushed him onward. He must destroy. 


	3. Such Wicked Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Corypheus is defeated, Veren and Cullen have the space to decompress. Privacy and distractions care of Sera, Krem, The Iron Bull, and, of course, Varric.

Cullen’s nose had broken before. The pain was blinding, but familiar. Blood streamed down his face. The cut across his nose flared open, and Veren was horrified. His blonde hair was darkened by blood, and she couldn't tell if it was his or not. Cassandra was also covered in viscera. A healer palpated Varric’s stomach, checking for internal bleeding. Cole's arm was not sitting right, and her own forearm was fractured. The battle had been desperate.

They gathered around her, but there was one face missing in the crowd. Solas was gone. Later, they would realize that the elven artifact that Corypheus had used was also gone.

The return to Skyhold was strange for most. They had all made this trek post-battle, but it had yet to sink in what they had accomplished. Josephine met them in the courtyard. Her gaze swept the crowd, rapidly calculating losses and searching for faces. When her eyes met Veren’s, she broke into a smile and tears began to flow down her face. That night, when Cullen scrubbed the gore from his body, he felt it take layers off of him. The servants would later speak to each other, remarking on the dark waters taken from each chamber.

In the following days, there was little time for recuperation. Notices had to be sent. Diplomacy had to be sustained. Compensation had to be sent to the grieving. Honor had to be given to the fallen. Aside from the logistics of ending a war and bringing the gargantuan machine of the Inquisition to a grinding halt, people were in shock.

Celebrations did not begin immediately, but when they did, they were cathartic. There were some nobles whose festivities lasted for days. Others were quiet and relieved. In Skyhold, the militaristic focus give way to frequent nights full of laughter and song. The large celebration was put together by Josephine.

Veren felt heaviness in her chest. A sinking in her stomach. To bond through battle was an intimacy that few survived, and she knew it would tie them together for the rest of their lives. She would miss them all dearly and mourned the reason for their meeting. Her heart had been sore for months. When Solas cut off all informal contact, and stopped accompanying her and operations, she felt stranded. Then, to deal with Blackwall’s— or Raineir’s falsehood, was another sword through her already bleeding heart. However, she did not expect the final abandonment of Solas to cauterize. She could not say that the love was gone, rather it was dormant. But she would not use that word until much later.

Hearing the raucous laughter and stories shouted over each other, Veren left her ruminations on the battlements, and joined everyone else in the warmth of the Great Hall. She drank and sang and roared with her companions, her followers, her troops. Her people. It was the first time she saw her advisors cut loose from their vigilant inhibitions. Leliana had confiscated Josephine’s writing board, and the latter caught herself giggling with a glass of wine in hand. Vivienne and Cullen — two paragons of decorum — still maintained an authoritative air. Vivienne was a master of the fete, after all. 

Veren’s body was warm and buzzing, when she found herself in a quiet corner of the Hall beside the Commander himself. He was laughing, trying to recount a joke that Varric had told. She smiled hazily at the relaxed shape of his face. He was doing a very bad job at telling the joke, and she felt a mix of joy and sadness creep up on her. How many nights had they shared a bottle or a kettle over such terrible jokes, such serious matters? Her body was aware of the Commander's body in a new way, and as he stumbled through a punchline, she blamed it on the ale. But they stayed side by side through more of the night. She realized but had their schedule stayed the same, uninterrupted by final battles and whatnot, she would be strolling the ramparts to his office for a debrief and some company.

The Iron Bull pulled them both into a hug and kept them wedged under his arms for the better part of an hour before Sera saved them. Vivienne regally commanded the bards to play a group dance, and Veren tumbled from arm to arm, soldier to healer to mage to scout. Their happiness bolstered her spirits. But she saw the Commander cheering them on from the sidelines. She extricated herself from the revelry.

“My dearest Commander!” she exclaimed, breathless, “Even now, you do not dance?”

He laughed, “It is a bit difficult in armor.”

“Then doff that lion’s mane!” she replied.

He laughed again.

“Stripping down in the Great Hall. And I haven’t even lost a bet this time.”

Veren had always laughed heartily at that memory, but in the heat and glow of the evening, the vision of her Commander stark naked with nothing but a hand of cards to keep his dignity conjured new feelings — no, not new. Ignored. Stirrings that should have crystallized as a deformation in their friendship. Stirrings that rippled briefly across her face. Veren swallowed hard, and he noticed.

Honeyed heat crept up her stomach, and she became aware of how she breathed, how heavy her eyelids felt, how something magmatic shifted between them. Cullen attempted to change the subject, but the edge of his voice was far too velvet, it's depth far too reaching. He lost his train of thought partway through.

“Would you like that second chance at Wicked Grace?” Veren asked. There was a smirk in her voice, but their shared look was intense.

From across the Hall, Krem elbowed Sera.

“I have thought about it,” he replied, quiet and deeply serious.

From somewhere behind them, glass shattered.

“I have been wondering for some time now when we would get a chance,” she spoke softly.

He replied quickly, “I thought you had been playing with others.”

Veren paused, swallowing the heartache that had threatened to consume her. 

“It may have been a possibility at some point, but it wasn't... a fair game.”

They had been drawing closer without realizing. The bards struck up another boisterous tune and The Iron Bull began herding people to dance. Servants were flocking to the other side of the Hall, as someone yelled about a wretched mess. Wood cracked. A crowd cheered.

Cullen drank in her face — her scars, her lips, her frostbitten ears, holding her body and praying that she lived, following her through the Frostbacks, finding her astride the ramparts in the Western Approach, waiting triumphantly for them in the Hissing Wastes, their somber debriefings about the Emerald Graves, the way she spun nobles and spirit blades, her gaze finding his on the battlefield, the fury and tenderness that it held.

She felt enraptured — ensorcelled, not by magic or mystique, but solidity, a quiet hearth, wilderness entrapped and emergent, a ferocious and stalwart courage, a lion among men, chain-breaker, Commander, reformed compassion, a sword re-forged and faithful.

Veren felt a very serious need. Her heart ached. 

Cullen's own heart jolted at the pain she thought she hid so well. They had fostered a deep caring for each other, and he had almost seen her destroyed. 

“I am not a gambling man —”

“I'm not offering a gamble.”

“It is always a gamble.”

“I assure you, I'm not here to tempt you away —”

“And I assure you that I do not agree to temptations, but if you ask me to follow you," his voice was dangerously soft, "I will say yes.”

The Iron Bull hoisted a young man onto his shoulders, and Varric lead a chant.

Veren hooked a finger under the fastenings of the lion’s mane. She tugged once and turned to walk to her quarters. She heard the door close behind her, and the even footsteps on the stairs. She waited until she stood in the centre of her private chambers to turn around, for fear that she had always been a fool. But he was there, one hand habitually resting on the hilt of his sword.

She gestured to the weapon, and in a strangled voice demanded, “Take that thing off.”

“As you wish.”

The intensity of his gaze held her in place, as he obeyed. He did not stop at his sheath, and without breaking eye contact, fluidly doffed the lion's mane and breastplate. As he expertly unclasped his gauntlets, shoulders, and leg armor, the unwavering and unfiltered lust in his expression held any quip or comment of hers at bay. Even when faced with the triple dragons of Emprise du Lion — or the grand villain they had just slain — she did not struggle for words as she did now. She did not have months or years to consider — they were a landslide, after a lifetime of strain and struggle and yearning.

Finally, Cullen strode to where she stood, and gently grasped her face. His palms swept softly across her cheeks, his thumbs delicately moving over her scars. Her hands flew to his arms, anchoring on their sturdiness. His fingers combed through her hair, and her eyes closed in bliss.

She marveled at the simultaneous strength and tenderness of his grasp. She sighed in relief, delighted by his eagerness to touch her, that he felt so compelled to hold her. The Commander was control and liberation, power and deference, bold and humble. Now, he was taking her in again, every sore, bruised, and bloodstained bit of her. He kissed her.

She felt a furious lust that built against the delicate press of his lips on hers. They moved slightly and slowly. Veren was transfixed. She yielded with a soft moan, inhaling deeply. He moved his grip down her arms, to her waist, then up to the top button of her jerkin. Her own hands moved to his ribs — but gently, for she had seen him wince.

“Allow me?” he asked.

Her eyes fluttered open.

“Yes,” she breathed.

Her voice and body were subtly slurred as her mind was caught up completely in his proximity and touch. He undid each button he could find, every clasp he could reach, until she was standing in her small clothes. She shivered slightly in anticipation. He stripped himself to match, and she saw the dark purple blossoming under his skin — her breath caught. It seemed to fill his torso.

Without hesitation, her fingers reached for the severe bruising, and she said, “I can heal you.”

Cullen’s face was a dark mix that she could only read thanks to the many nights they shared in confidence.

She sighed, “You don't ask enough.”

Blueish-green light emanated softly from her fingers, and healing warmth spread across his body. The creases in his brow relaxed. As the light ebbed, she slid her palm over the newly healed tissue. Cullen’s arms swiftly wrapped around her and pulled her tight. They seemed to speak without words.

In Veren’s dreams, she sat on the side of a hill in a forest. Like so many dreams before, in the corner of her eye she saw the Black City, and she saw a wolf staring from the trees. But that night, beside her rested a large mabari, panting lightly in the sun. Her hand gently stroked its fur. This time, she did not turn to try to catch the wolf, to accuse him, to beg him. She let him stay on the border, and the mabari nuzzled her face. 


End file.
